Page 21 of Crawl
Cash pulls me into his arms, his body heat blankets me, and for a second, I forget who he is, and I melt. The dusty scent of chemicals and pine trees and his subtle sweat embraces me. I blink, letting myself be taken out of those memories. Cash absorbs my world and it feels right.
“What is it?” he asks again.
This time, I don’t stop myself from answering. “I thought I saw someone.”
“Who?” When I don’t say a word, he grips my shoulders, bending down until we’re both at the same eye level. “Tell me, Remedy, or so help me, I willmakeyou. I will show everyone in this store what a—”
“My stepdad,” I say, interrupting him. My stepdad doesn’t deserve a name. But the truth is that I can’t say his name, even if I want to. Hisnameshrinks me down like I have no control. I close my eyes, then let out another breath. “I thought I saw my stepdad.”
Cash studies me, his eyes reading the words I refuse to say. Like how I don’t want to be around my stepdad. That I haven’t spoken to him for years, and how Iwantto keep it that way. My stepdad moved to Tampa after the divorce, but that doesn’t mean he can’t visit Key West. He still has friends here. And his son has friends here, too.
Cash puts a muscular arm around my shoulder, guiding me back to the entrance and out of the hardware store. Like he knows I need to get out of there. Like he almost wants to protect me.
But he’s selfish. A user. Like my stepdad. None of this makes sense.
I let him drive, not questioning where we’re going, what we’re doing, or why. But when we drive past Queen Street, the turn for his estate, I perk up.
“You can go left up here,” I say. “You’ll still—”
“We’re not going to my estate,” he says. I wrinkle my nose, questioning him. “We’re going to fix your door.”
I don’t have the energy to fix a door, nor to be trapped in my rental house with a strange man, even if the house technically belongs to him.
“Call one of your maintenance men,” I say.
“I’ll teach you.”
“I sent in a maintenance request. I didn’t ask you for your help.”
He doesn’t respond. His eyes are on the road like I’m not there. A tumbling sensation rolls around in my stomach; I know what I said was rude. He’s trying tohelp.
But I don’t want his help.
He parks in front of my rental house, and I open my mouth to questionhowhe knows where I live, but I stop myself. He owns the propertyandis my employer. Of course he knows.
He hands me the plastic bag.
“Fix it yourself,” he says.
I gawk at him, then tap my purse. “But what about my car?”
“I’ll have someone drop it off.”
He drives down the street, our last interaction eerily short. Cash likes hearing himself talk, especially when it comes to putting me in my place, and that stark difference to how he acted in the car just now unnerves me. It’s almost like I offended him.
The plastic bag crinkles in my grip. I glance up at the front porch.
What happened?
As I walk inside, my phone buzzes: a picture of my mother and me fills the screen.
“Tom wants to take us on a double date,” Mom says as soon as I pick up. “What do you think?”
“Tom?” I ask. He has a name now; that means they’re serious. It’s a losing battle.
“My new boyfriend. I told you about him.” A dull tingling sensation curls my stomach, threatening to make me curl up in bed for the rest of the night. “You can bring one of your old boyfriends. How about the professor? What’s his name? Oh! Or maybe Peter!”
I roll my eyes. My ex isn’t an option. If we’re together after dark, we will inevitably end up having sex, and I’m tired of faking orgasms, especially now that I know how good pain actually feels when it comes from a sadist. And Peter, my cop friend, isn’t any better; he’s worse. He drugged one of our classmates, assaulted her, claimed that she liked it, then became a police officer out of guilt. At one point, I put his past aside since he wanted to help put my stepdad in jail, but years passed. He probably doesn’t remember that anymore.
